


Manipulate

by Zella_Celan



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Gen, Mystery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-08-30
Packaged: 2018-12-21 16:14:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,127
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11947917
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zella_Celan/pseuds/Zella_Celan
Summary: As Sherlock knows from experience, life with a manipulative arch nemesis is many things, but never boring. But what if, all this time, someone has been manipulating both of you? Takes place after His Last Vow. Cross posted here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/12147174/1/Manipulate





	Manipulate

**Present**

Smells intruded first. Cleaning fluid. Sharp and nauseating.

Then sounds. Breathing, not his own. And dripping water. Almost steady, but just enough offbeat to be maddening.

Then taste. Something metallic. Blood. A flash of memory of struggling and biting his cheek.

Then pain. Throbbing at the base of his skull that might signify a concussion. Pinching at his wrists and ankles. Various dull aches that would become bruises if they weren't already.

At last, Sherlock blinked his eyes open. He was facing a boring, gray, concrete wall that met a boring, gray, concrete floor and a ceiling of unfinished wood. He slowly turned his head left - more gray wall. Right - gray wall broken by one uninteresting white door. Up - a glimpse of a bare 60-watt light bulb before the pain in his neck made him drop his head to his chest.

He didn't know this place. He didn't think he remembered coming here. He certainly didn't recall being tied to a chair.

And who was with him? _John?_ he wondered hopefully. He'd been alone when he was abducted, but they could have intercepted John separately. He didn't think he could turn his head far enough to see for himself, so this time he asked the question aloud. "John?"

"Not quite." It was not the voice Sherlock had hoped to hear, but it was still familiar.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Is this your doing?"

"I'm as tied up as you are," said Moriarty innocently.

Deciding the pain was worth it, Sherlock twisted his head around. Moriarty was telling the truth; he, too, was strapped to a chair, facing the opposite wall. His dark hair was bloodied.

"Do you know where we are?" asked Sherlock.

"A basement.”

"Aside from the obvious."

"Not a clue."

How helpful. But before Sherlock could say anything else, the door squeaked open and admitted a small figure, plainly dressed, hair in a ponytail.

Molly.

Despite Sherlock's relief at the imminent rescue implied by Molly’s entrance, he snapped, "You shouldn't be here."

"It's fine," said Molly.

"You should call Lestrade and let him handle this. Or John."

"John's in the next room. He's tied up, too. But I don't need Lestrade. I came to bring you something." She held out her hand. A figurine perched on her palm.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He didn't want to see it. It made everything make sense.

_Molly._

 

**Past – Sherlock**

Sherlock and John sat stiffly in the waiting room, surrounded by members of other growing families. Mary had just laughed when John said he wanted to be there, so instead, he sat beside his best friend. He had ordered Sherlock not to let him pace, and Sherlock kept tugging him back to his seat.

Sherlock didn’t understand why he needed to be here, but John insisted he didn’t want to wait alone, and Sherlock decided agreeing would be worth getting John off his back about it. Besides, Mary said he should come.

John kept muttering things like, “How long can it take?” but Sherlock had given up responding; John didn’t seem interested in his scientific answers.

“We’re not having any more kids,” John grumbled this time when Sherlock grabbed his shirt to keep him from leaving his chair. “I can’t take this.”

Sherlock cocked an eyebrow at him, and John relented. A little. “So I have the easier end of the deal. That doesn’t mean it’s easy.”

Sherlock decided he’d let John and Mary work that out on their own. He glanced around, unconsciously tapping his long fingers against the wooden arm of his uncomfortable chair. He had long ago deduced everything there was to know about everyone in the waiting room. What else was he supposed to do with himself?

The buzzer John held vibrated, and he leaped to his feet and ran to a desk where a patient lady handed him a phone. Sherlock stayed where he was and watched, and the relief on John’s face told him all the words that would come tumbling out of his friend’s mouth when he returned.

“The baby’s here. They’re both fine. I can go see them. Do you want to come?”

He did, but he didn’t know what he would say. “I’ll come by in a few days. Let Mary recover.”

John looked disappointed for a moment, but he was too distracted for that to last. “I’ll see you, then. Thanks for waiting with me.” He disappeared before Sherlock could remember that he was supposed to say, “You’re welcome.”

Sherlock walked a while before hailing a cab, letting his brain find welcome relief in dissecting the lives of the numerous people who rushed past him on the busy sidewalk. It wasn’t as good as a case, but it was better than the waiting room.

Then someone stumbled into him, mumbled an apology, and rushed away. Sherlock, recognizing the classic pickpocket’s move, spun around, an angry, “Stop!” bursting from his lips. But it was no good; the man was gone. Brow furrowed, Sherlock rifled through his pockets, but nothing was missing. Instead, in the right hand pocket of his coat, he felt an unfamiliar addition.

He didn’t pull it out right away but wrapped his hand around it – small, oddly-shaped, rough, nothing he recognized by touch – until he had deposited himself in the relative privacy of a cab. After a wary glance at the driver, he let himself examine the trinket.

It was a tiny model of the _Arc de Triomphe_ , cheaply made, touristy and uninteresting. Which made it highly interesting: why would anyone care to place this trinket in his pocket?

He turned it over, looking for marks, and found one that made him go still. It wasn’t original. It had been scratched onto the hard surface with a blunt knife tip. Three letters he’d hoped to never see again.

IOU.

 

Contrary to the practice of both inhabitants of the building, the door to 221 Baker Street stood open. Sherlock climbed the stairs to his flat slowly, skipping the one that creaked. He was far from surprised to find Moriarty sitting in his chair.

“What do you know about the _Arc de Triomphe_?” Moriarty asked, not looking up from the small object he held.

Sherlock sat in John’s chair. “It’s been a long time,” he said.

“Three years,” said Moriarty. “Give or take. It’s high time for another game, don’t you think?”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“This one wasn’t my idea.”

“Whose then?”

“Coming back wasn’t my idea either, you know. That was your brother. He said as long as I was no more than a nuisance, he wouldn’t make _too_ much of an effort to find me. He just wanted the people frightened.”

“He told me.”

“He didn’t want you to leave. Isn’t that sweet?”

“Why are you here?”

“I’ve kept my end of the bargain. It’s been boring, but not as boring as prison. But this morning I got a package. Left outside my door. No stamp, no address, no fingerprints. Just a plain, cheap envelope. It hadn’t even been licked. It held two things. This,” he tossed the toy he was holding to Sherlock, “and a message on the inside of the flap.”

Sherlock examined the figurine first. The _Arc de Triomphe_. Identical to the one he had received, save that it lacked the added IOU. “And the message?” he asked. Moriarty handed over the envelope, which was just as he had described. Sherlock briskly opened the flap. “Get Sherlock,” it read, a tiny smiley face drawn inside the “o”.

“It’s almost identical to the one I left while stealing the crown jewels,” said Moriarty, “but that’s not my handwriting.”

“No,” Sherlock agreed. “It’s a good imitation, but a woman wrote this.” He tossed over his _Arc de Triomphe_. “What do you make of that?”

“I’ve already seen it.”

“No you haven’t.”

Moriarty looked closer. “Oh.”

“Yes, oh. That was slipped into my pocket this afternoon. So if this isn’t some elaborate trick you’ve dreamt up, someone is playing with both of us.”

“This isn’t my doing.”

“I believe you,” said Sherlock, standing to grab his laptop from the table.

“Why?”

“IOU,” Sherlock said in his, “Obviously,” voice. “You wouldn’t use it twice.”

“Good.”

“But this is someone familiar with our game. Anyone might know about ‘Get Sherlock;’ it was on telly; but IOU wasn’t as publicized.”

“So it’s someone who knows one of us.”

“Or a fanatic.”

“But they aren’t trying to replicate our game. Just referencing it. I did nothing with the _Arc de Triomphe_.” When Sherlock didn’t reply, Moriarty added, “What are you doing?”

“Research,” said Sherlock distractedly, eyes flicking over the text on his screen.

“Anything interesting?”

Sherlock shot him a vicious glare. “Do your own research.”

Moriarty raised his eyebrows. “I will.”

 

Several days later, Sherlock knocked reluctantly on John and Mary’s door. He still had no idea what to say about a baby, but he’d said he would come, and some traitorous part of him wanted to be here.

John let him in. Mary sat on the couch, looking tired but well. And happy. She held up her arms, and Sherlock obediently leaned down to hug her. “Glad you finally decided to visit,” she said. “You should have stuck around at the hospital.”

“I was busy,” he said, claiming a chair.

“No, you weren’t.” She laughed. “Sophia’s asleep, but she should be waking up soon, so you can meet her.”

“Sophia?”

“The baby? Didn’t John tell you what we named her?”

“I didn’t,” said John.

“What did you boys talk about while you waited all that time?”

“We… didn’t really talk,” said John.

Mary laughed again, but she was interrupted by a newborn’s breathy cry from the next room. She leaned over to poke Sherlock’s arm. “Go get her. John and I are both worn out.” She waved away his protests. “You won’t break her if you’re gentle.”

Sherlock entered the dark nursery uncertainly. He flicked on the light and faced a fussing baby who appeared much too small for her crib. The fuzz on her head was some color between brown and blond. Her face was scrunched up and red from the effort of crying.

He could hear John asking Mary if she thought this was a good idea, and that made him stubbornly want to do well. Gently, as Mary had instructed, he picked up the baby and stood staring at her. She didn’t stop crying, so he tried, “Shh,” and, “Hello, Sophia.”

That finally worked; she quieted and squinted up at him. He couldn’t prevent the triumphant grin that spread over his face, but he dismissed it before carrying her out to her parents.

He tried to hand her to Mary, but she just smiled at him. “You’re doing great. I’ll get you a bottle and you can feed her. It will be good practice for when we need you to babysit.”

Sherlock looked at John, who shrugged and said, “You really think we should leave her with Sherlock?”

“Of course,” said Mary. “If he’s going to be around, he has to get used to her. And Sherlock, you’re only allowed to be part of this family if you’re willing to watch the baby. You can be the eccentric uncle. Otherwise, we won’t have anything to do with you.”

Sherlock didn’t think she was serious, but he couldn’t be sure, so he obediently sat when she pointed him to a chair. A minute later, he found himself feeding a baby. At first, he didn’t dare do anything else; the baby – _Sophia_ – was so tiny. How did something so small turn into a human being? And what if he did break her?

He wouldn’t, he told himself firmly. Besides, why should he care? Babies seemed like a lot of work. Why did people bother? How was it worth…

Then Sophia stopped eating for a moment, looked towards Sherlock, and made a soft, contented sound.

Oh.

Sherlock swallowed and made himself look up. “I’m leaving for France tomorrow. I’ll be back in a week.”

“France?” asked John.

“A case.”

“In France?”

“I don’t know.”

“So why are you going?”

“I need data. I suppose you can’t come with me?” John raised his eyebrows and looked at the baby in Sherlock’s arms. “I thought not.”

 

Exploring the _Arc de Triomphe_ wasn’t as enlightening as Sherlock had hoped. After two days of examining every bit that was open to the public – and some that weren’t – he stared at it, scowling.

A head of dark hair across the way caught his eye. Apparently Moriarty was doing his own research.

He walked up behind the man, quietly. “Need help?”

Moriarty didn’t flinch. “No. You?”

“I don’t need help. I need data.”

“Which you need help finding.”

Sherlock scowled again and half turned away, but he didn’t deny it.

“I’ve been doing my own research,” said Moriarty airily. “And do you know what it’s turned up? Nothing. Zilch. I’d wager you’ve had the same result. Don’t you think that’s a form of data?”

“Meaning?” said Sherlock, irritated.

“We’re not looking at this the right way. If a genius criminal and a genius detective have done so much research and come out of it empty handed, it’s not where they should look.”

It made sense, to Sherlock’s annoyance.

“Maybe the clue’s in the name,” Sherlock said thoughtfully, “like Janus Cars. The _Arc de Triomphe_ – Triumphal Arch. A victory. But a victory in our final game, as it seems to be referencing? Neither of us won; we’re both still alive.”

“Maybe that’s the victory.”

“Or maybe whoever sent the messages got some other victory out of it.”

“How? It was our game.”

“I don’t know.” Sherlock shook his head viciously and spun away. “It’s still not enough data,” he growled. He was going home.

 

Something about the flat wasn’t right when Sherlock returned. Mrs. Hudson insisted no one had been by, but someone had. Something was off. It wasn’t the tiny shifts created by Mrs. Hudson’s intrusive cleaning – for all her claims that she wasn’t his housekeeper, she did a lot of keeping – but he didn’t know what it was.

He stood in the middle of the living room, closed his eyes, and forced himself to remember the room as it had been when he had left, turning as he pictured every angle. Then he did it again with his eyes open.

The upper right corner of the bookshelf. His books were out of order. He clambered atop the furniture to reach it and found a tiny surveillance camera. It looked exactly like the one he had found the night he was arrested.

Except it was dead. He dismantled it and found no electronics.

Just a note in a woman’s handwriting.

“The clue’s in the name.”

He’d been right.

And he’d been meant to find this.

It _was_ some sort of game. But who was playing it? And why? And why was everything a reference to his old cases – everything but those figurines?

It wasn’t Moriarty; he believed that. Moriarty had once claimed being changeable was his weakness, and it was true. If he were inventing some elaborate case because he was bored, he wouldn’t be content to reuse old tricks.

Besides, this was not a case. As far as he could tell, no one had been hurt, no laws broken – except breaking and entering to plant this fake camera, but that hardly counted.

He needed to talk to John.

He glanced at his watch. John would be at work. Mary was still on maternity leave, but he didn’t feel like talking to her.

He snatched his phone out of his pocket and dashed off a quick text to John – _Come at once, if convenient – SH_ – smiling as he did it – then sat down to wait and think.

 

It was dark by the time he heard John’s footsteps on the stairs, and he still sat in the same position, waiting and thinking.

“Between work and Mary, I just got free,” said John, “and last time you sent me that text, it wasn’t very urgent. I figured this one wouldn’t be either.”

“It wasn’t,” said Sherlock.

John went around turning on neglected lights. “Why the old reference? You’re not the sentimental type.”

“It seemed fitting.”

“Fitting for what?”

But Sherlock didn’t answer. He continued to stare blankly in front of him. The next thing he knew, John held a cup of tea in front of his nose. He started slightly, took the cup, and said, “I had a visitor when I returned from the hospital the day Sophia was born.”

“Oh?” John settled himself into his chair.

“It was Moriarty.”

“He is still alive, then?”

“I’m not in the habit of seeing ghosts.”

“No, I didn’t… but how? He was dead.”

“So was I.”

“Yeah, well, I know how you did it. How did he do it?”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don’t know the details, but it wouldn’t have been difficult. A blank in the gun, fake blood… I didn’t exactly stop to check for a pulse. Before I was taken into the hospital, Mycroft’s men collected him and discovered that he wasn’t dead, but no one told me until a few months ago.”

“Why did he come back?”

“That was Mycroft’s plan to keep me in the country. He said he would leave him alone as long as he didn’t cause too much trouble.”

“So why did he come here?”

Sherlock tossed the figurine of the _Arc de Triomphe_ to John. “Someone slipped that into my pocket as I was leaving the hospital that day. Moriarty got one in an envelope with the message, ‘Get Sherlock.’”

John turned the figurine over in his hand several times. “Who’s doing this?”

“I don’t know, but today there was something else.” He pointed. John heaved himself out of his chair and bent over the dismantled camera spread across the table.

“What is it?”

“A camera like the one I found the night I was arrested – in the same place, too – but all it contained was that note.”

“‘The clue’s in the name’ – the _Arc de Triomphe_?”

“Yes.”

“Clue to what?”

“That’s what I don’t know.”

“So you have no idea what this person is trying to accomplish.”

“Not yet.”

“Could it be some sort of blackmail? Showing you they know all about your old cases and then demanding something?”

“Why would someone knowing about my cases be a threat?”

“Well… I don’t know.”

“There aren’t enough yet for there to be any pattern,” Sherlock muttered.

“You think there will be more?”

“Of course. Whatever this is, there’s a point, and it hasn’t been communicated yet. They’ll keep going until I’ve understood.”

“They couldn’t just write you a letter?”

“They are. My kind of letter.” Sherlock’s eyes glinted.

“Some secret admirer.”

For several minutes, they sat in silence, then John said, “So did you need me to do something, or did you just want to hear yourself say all that out loud so you could process it?” As Sherlock looked up in surprise, he added, “Because I can stay if you need me, but if that was all, I should get home to can help Mary.”

“No, I don’t need you,” said Sherlock. “Mrs. Hudson just took my skull again.”

John chuckled. “Someday he’s going to be gone forever.” He clapped Sherlock on the shoulder and departed with a cheerful, “See you!” Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin and stared for a long time at the spot where John had disappeared.

 

Babysitting.

John and Mary insisted they needed a break and Sherlock needed to watch the baby – _Sophia_. He protested valiantly, but to no avail.

At least by now he could hold the baby – _Sophia_ – without thinking he would break her.

John and Mary brought the baby – _**Sophia**_ – to his flat and left in a flurry of instructions. He remembered them all – of course he remembered them all – but he still sat staring at Sophia in her bassinet wondering what to do with her.

“Hello, Sophia,” he said. She just stared back at him. What did he expect? She was a baby. She wasn’t going to have a conversation with him. All she could do was cry and eat.

He wrinkled his nose. Okay, that wasn’t _quite_ all.

By the time she was clean, she was hungry. Then – almost instantly, it seemed – she needed her diaper changed again. Then she was crying, and he didn’t know why. He offered her the stuffed bunny Mary had left, but she turned her nose up at it.

“Can’t blame you,” he muttered.

Mary said Sophia liked singing, but he wasn’t yet desperate enough to sing to a baby. “Why couldn’t they have asked Mrs. Hudson?” he grumbled.

Deciding singing would be his last resort, he picked up Sophia and began pacing. To his relief, her sobs began to diminish to whimpers.

His info wall, which he had begun to cover with the memorabilia from his secret admirer, caught his eye, and he stopped to examine it yet again. “What do you think, Sophia?” he asked. “Is it someone I know? It makes the most sense that way, but I don’t like that conclusion.” He shook his head slightly. He hadn’t told John that. Why was he telling a baby?

Because she couldn’t tell anyone else.

And she couldn’t be doing this.

He looked down. Sophia stared up at him with wide, sleepy eyes. “Who do you think it is?” he asked. “I don’t believe it’s Moriarty. Anderson’s not sane enough to do this. Donovan’s not creative enough. Everyone else who would know these things I trust too much. Even Mycroft.” His mouth twitched. “Trust might not be the right word there. But he’s too busy to play games with me anymore. Don’t have siblings, Sophia. They’re far too complicated.”

Sophia yawned. Sherlock smiled at her. “I wonder if you have a middle name. I’ll have to make John tell me. Or we could raid your apartment and find your birth certificate. It would be easy. I have a key. Your parents don’t know that. Don’t tell. If I can’t get your name out of John or Mary, we’ll try that method. I’ll introduce you to the finer points of breaking and entering. I may be on the side of the angels, but sometimes that requires breaking the rules, and John’s not going to tell you that. We’ll have to have lessons. We can’t have you grow up to be an ordinary human. Not when I’m you’re honorary uncle.”

She yawned again, and he rubbed her back. “I never expected to be an uncle, you know. Mycroft’s not the fatherly type. Neither am I. I’m not sure I’m cut out to be an uncle, either. What is an uncle supposed to do? I suppose you probably don’t know. Maybe you won’t care. I’m the only one you’ll have, so you might not know the difference. We’ll figure it out together.”

Still looking up at him, Sophia smiled. Sherlock gently touched her soft hair. “I think I’ll enjoy figuring it out with you. But you’re not allowed to tell anyone I said that.”

She yawned yet again. “Surely you’re supposed to be asleep by now,” he muttered. He looked around. He still didn’t want to sing, but… He carefully placed Sophia in her bassinet and picked up his violin. He began to play, choosing a piece of his own, a slow one that seemed like it might serve as a lullaby. He kept the music hushed, leaning over the bassinet to see how Sophia was taking it. She blinked up at him, and each blink lasted a little longer until her eyes stayed closed.

Sherlock smiled.

 

A year later, 221b Baker Street was cluttered with memorabilia. The surface of the table in the living room was long lost, and the wall above the couch had a new wallpaper of photographs and notes. From the look of the place, no one would know Sherlock had solved dozens of important cases in the interim, several of them of national importance. This was the puzzle that intrigued him.

But tonight he intended to forget about it. He was babysitting, and he and Sophia were going on a mission.

As soon as John and Mary departed, Sherlock tackled the one item of baby paraphernalia he had once sworn never to touch. It was an impossible contraption of straps that held the baby to one’s chest.

Putting it on made him temporarily question his self-appointed title of genius.

The first time he saw John wearing it, he’d been unable to stop laughing at his friend, but John just warned him that his day would come. Sherlock denied it vehemently, but John had been right. It would be make for easier breaking and entering than carrying Sophia in her car seat.

“You can’t tell anyone about this, Sophia,” he said, picking her up.

As he settled her into the straps, his info wall caught his eye. He paused to look at it then tore himself away; more important pastimes filled his agenda tonight.

Taking a route where he knew they would not encounter John and Mary, Sherlock arrived at the house in only a few minutes. “Breaking in with a key is entirely too easy,” he told Sophia after they were inside. “We’re going to have to find other ways to expand your education.”

He went on the hunt; since he hadn’t been able to convince Sophia’s parents to tell him her middle name, he wanted her birth certificate.

First he checked the fireproof box that sat in the master bedroom’s closet. Sure enough, there it was. “This wasn’t even a challenge,” he complained to the baby strapped to his chest. “Couldn’t they have at least made it interesting for us?”

Then he looked at the paper.

_Sophia Shirley Watson._

He stared at it for a long moment.

Then he laughed. They had made it interesting after all.

 

When Sophia was almost two, Sherlock got a phone call from John as he walked along a busy London street, on his way home from buying milk. “Hello?” he answered.

“Sophia’s missing.”

Sherlock stopped walking. “What? How? When?” He spun around, unconsciously dropping his milk, and hailed a cab, barking the address of John and Mary’s house at the driver, then clutching the phone more tightly to his ear. “I’m on my way.”

“Our sitter put her down for a nap this afternoon. She’s been sleeping well, so Tara thought nothing of it when she hadn’t made a sound an hour and a half later when Mary got home. But when Mary peeked in to check on her, the crib was empty. She called me. I’m almost home.”

“Has Mary touched anything?” Sherlock snapped.

“I don’t know. I’m not there,” John snapped back. “I’m going to call Lestrade now.” He hung up.

Sherlock stuffed his phone in his pocket and glared at the back of the cabbie’s head as though that would make him drive faster.

It didn’t.

He’d been trying not to dread this since the day he deduced that Mary was pregnant. He _had_ been dreading it since the day he first fed Sophia. He had enemies. John was his best friend. Getting to him through John’s child just made sense.

It wasn’t right. Sophia didn’t deserve this. She did not chose to be the daughter of a sociopath’s best friend.

If she was hurt, she would not be the only one.

 

Lestrade had men searching, but he hadn’t even tried to persuade Sherlock to stay out of it. Sherlock first enlisted his homeless network – much quicker than the police. He rushed to get a cab to St. Bart’s to analyze the data from John and Mary’s house. He wanted to be scouring the streets, but he’d be more useful this way.

In the midst of a stretch of burnt-out streetlights, a thick hand grabbed his shoulder and yanked him backwards into a hard chest. He grunted and struggled and wished for John with his gun, but more brutes appeared around him out of the darkness to help hold him captive. He fought hard, biting the inside of his cheek and tasting blood, but something smashed into the base of his skull, and he felt his consciousness fading.

 

**Present**

“It’s you,” said Sherlock.

“Yes,” said Molly, looking down at the figurine she held. “Did you figure it out?” she asked. “Why I chose the _Arc de Triomphe_?”

“No,” said Sherlock, and Molly shook her head.

“I believed in you once, you know. I admired you. I thought you could do anything – solve anything. And you couldn’t even solve this.”

“Then tell me.”

She looked at him with sad eyes. “I told you. The clue’s in the name. Triumph. I’ve won.”

“Won what?”

She smiled then. “All those times I helped you, the times I just happened to have what you needed, did you think those were coincidences?”

He hadn’t given them much thought at all. “I suppose so.”

“What would your brother say about coincidences?”

“The universe is rarely so lazy.” The words came out automatically. He’d heard Mycroft say them repeatedly, but he struggled to remember that they applied to his life.

“But what have you been doing, Molly? What was the point?”

“You know the point. Or you should. You’re Sherlock Holmes.”

But he didn’t. Criminals he could understand. But this new Molly Hooper – he didn’t trust himself to know anything about her.

“You were proving a point,” said Moriarty, and Sherlock was glad for a reprieve to collect his thoughts. “Showing us that you knew everything and could mess with us without us realizing it was you doing it.”

“That was part of it,” said Molly, “but not the biggest part. I didn’t just know everything about all those cases. I orchestrated them all.”

There was a moment of silence. Then Moriarty burst out angrily, “Of course you didn’t. That was my role.”

She smiled at him. “Every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain. But you know what else they need? A damsel in distress.”

Sherlock stared at her. She still looked and sounded like quiet, timid Molly. But – “You knew? Everything? It was your doing?”

“Everything,” she confirmed.

“Why?”

“I told you: I admired you. I loved you. I wanted you to notice me, and not just when I could be useful. You never did. _Never._ I decided revenge would be the next best thing.”

“How long?”

“Since right around when you met John.”

“You couldn’t have been a bit quicker about it?”

“Revenge is a lengthy business,” Moriarty said seriously.

“Is this it, then?” asked Sherlock. “Is this the end? You tell me all this so I can know how you felt and feel guilty? Because I’m sorry, Molly. I really am. I’ve been sorry for a long time, but I never knew how to make it up to you.”

“It is the end,” she said.

“What sort of end?”

“I can’t just let you go.”

“You’re going to kill me, then?”

“That’s the plan. But not just you. Jim. The world will be better off without him. And John, because he didn’t notice me either, not for a long time. And Mary. She doesn’t need to lose her husband. I decided the rest of your friends could live.”

Sherlock sat up, tugged at his bonds. “Sophia.”

“No. She didn’t do anything. I couldn’t bring myself to kill her.”

“But you can kill her parents and leave her without anyone to take care of her?”

“I’m not leaving her without anyone to take care of her. I’m going to do that.”

“Devious,” said Moriarty admiringly.

“That’s terrible,” said Sherlock. _I sound like John._

“She doesn’t ever have to know. She’s not old enough to remember.”

“What happens when she asks questions? Are you going to lie?”

“Yes.”

“Why? Don’t you want someone to know about your successful revenge? It can’t be rewarding otherwise.”

“I would love for people to know, but I would prefer not to go to jail.”

“Where is Sophia? Did you take her? Have you hurt her?”

“I took her, yes, but I haven’t hurt her. Though she won’t stop crying…” For the first time, Molly sounded unsure. Sherlock jumped on it.

“Let me see her. I might be able to get her to stop.”

“You?” scoffed Moriarty. “Since when are you an expert on crying children?”

“Let me see her,” Sherlock insisted.

Molly hesitated a moment, but she left and returned in a few minutes with the squalling child. “I can’t figure out what’s wrong,” she admitted, looking lost.

Sherlock ignored her. “Sophia,” he said.

She turned, tearstained face lighting up when she spotted him. She held out her arms and struggled in Molly’s grasp. “Shewack.”

_She’s not even going to remember me._

“She doesn’t know you, Molly,” said Sherlock. “She’s never been happy with people she doesn’t know.”

“She’ll learn to,” said Molly. “I’ll be a good mother. She won’t be in danger with me the way she was with John and Mary and you.”

She was right. Sherlock didn’t want her to be right, but she was.

_Da-ding._

It was such an unexpected sound that it took Sherlock a moment to place it. His phone. “It’s probably Lestrade,” he said, “asking if I’ve made any progress on the case.”

Molly stepped forward and dug the phone out of Sherlock’s coat pocket, depositing Sophia on his lap while she checked the message and tapped out a reply. Sophia wrapped her arms around Sherlock’s neck and gave his cheek a sloppy kiss. Then Molly dropped the phone to the floor and again picked up the child, at which Sophia resumed wailing.

“You haven’t made progress,” Molly told Sherlock, “but I have. I’ve found all of you, in fact. In a few minutes, I will run out of here, rescuing the baby first at your insistence, while you’re busy untying the others, planning to come right after me. Before you can make it out, the building will explode. There’ll be nothing left to contradict my story. Even if there is, no one will think to doubt me.”

They wouldn’t.

“Where are we?” asked Sherlock. “Will you at least tell me that?”

“Where it all started. It’s a good place for a murder.” She kissed his cheek before she left the room.

“I underestimated her,” said Sherlock.

“Apparently everyone did,” Moriarty replied, but Sherlock hardly heard him. He was distracted staring at his phone, which lay tantalizingly out of reach. If he could get to it… But he tried rocking his chair and found it bolted to the floor. He craned his head around again, painfully; Moriarty’s chair was just as secure. He shook his head, regretted it, and started trying – without hope – to remove his hands from the ropes holding his wrists. It was the only thing he knew to do.

“What did she mean, where it all started?”

“It’s where I was almost killed during my first case with John. By a cabbie who was also a killer with a sponsor. He told me it was a good place for a murder. Apparently he wasn’t alone in the sentiment.”

“Oh, yes, the cabbie. I remember him. He told you my name. I was glad he didn’t kill you, you know. You were too good for that sort of death.”

“What about this sort of death?” Sherlock grunted.

“It’s fine for you, but I’m certainly too good for it. There’s nothing _romantic_ in being blown up. But Molly has been quite clever. Good way to get a child if you don’t want to have one yourself.”

Had it been anyone else’s child, Sherlock could have agreed more easily.

“There’s no way out of here, then?” asked Moriarty.

“None that I know of,” replied Sherlock. The knots hadn’t loosened at all. “We could try shouting, but no one would hear us.”

“Not in a basement like this,” Moriarty agreed.

Sherlock kept staring at his phone, wishing there had been a way to alert Lestrade to the problem. In the moment, he didn’t mind for himself much, or for Moriarty at all, but he minded for John and Mary. And for Sophia, even though she wouldn’t remember any of it.

“I wish she would blow the place already,” said Moriarty. “Waiting is boring.”

Sherlock’s phone rang.

 

**Past – Molly**

“How fresh?”

“Just in. 67. Natural causes. He used to work here. I knew him. He was nice.”

_But I have someone else in mind._

 

Molly flirted shamelessly with Jim. He flirted back. She’d guessed he would; she could introduce him to Sherlock, which was why he’d taken the job. They started having coffee not long after he began working at the hospital. Then lunch. She made him watch Glee with her, and his pretense of enjoyment was one of the funniest things she’d ever seen.

Then she took him to meet Sherlock – and watched as everyone in the room ignored her. Even Sherlock’s new friend; she’d thought him nice enough. She didn’t have to conjure up the tears as she ran out of the room, even though she didn’t care what Sherlock thought of Jim.

_He deserves whatever he gets._

 

Sherlock needed something; there was no other reason for him to make smalltalk about food. But then, she had expected it.

“I need to examine some bodies,” he told her.

“Some?” she asked.

“Eddie Van Coon and Brian Lukis.”

As she expected. But she made a show of checking her clipboard. “They’re on my list,” she said, managing to sound surprised.

“Could you wheel them out for me again?” he asked hopefully.

“Well… the paperwork’s already gone through…” _Make him work for it._

He struggled for a minute. Then, “You’ve… changed your hair.”

“What?”

“The style. It’s usually parted in the middle.”

“Yes, well…” _More._

“It’s good. It, um, suits you better this way.” He gave her a charming smile. She smiled back. _Good boy._

 

The Christmas present did its work well. Sherlock analyzed away, insulting her without realizing he was doing so. It would be less painful if it wasn’t all so true.

Then he opened the tag. Molly knew exactly what he was seeing:

_Dearest Sherlock_

_Love Molly xxx_

He stared, and, to his credit, seemed shocked. “You always say such horrible things,” she said tearfully. “Every time. Always. Always.”

He almost walked away, but then he turned back and said, “I am sorry. Forgive me. Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper.” And he bent down to kiss her cheek.

 

“Molly!”

Sherlock burst through the door Molly was about to open. She jumped. What was he doing here? “Oh, hello. I’m just going out.”

He turned her around. “No, you’re not.”

“I’ve got a lunch date...”

“Cancel it. You’re having lunch with me.” Sherlock pulled two bags of crisps out of his coat pockets with a flourish, as though that was a sufficient meal for two.

“What?”

“Need your help. It’s one of your old boyfriends. We’re trying to track him down. He’s been a bit naughty.”

_Ah._ “It’s Moriarty?”

“Course it’s Moriarty.”

Time for some correction. “Jim actually wasn’t even my boyfriend. We went out three times. I ended it.”

“Yes, and then he stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England, and organized a prison break at Pentonville. For the sake of law and order, I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly.”

She glared at his back. She would _not_.

But she would help him.

 

“I owe you…”

Molly caught the words and smiled inwardly. Sherlock had begun talking to himself about something unrelated to the work in front of him. Jim had really gotten to him.

She decided to bring it up, just to make him uncomfortable. “What did you mean, ‘I owe you’?” He didn’t respond, so she continued. “You said, ‘I owe you.’ You were muttering it while you were working.”

“Nothing,” he interrupted. “Mental note.”

Good save. But she wanted him more flustered than that. “You’re a bit like my dad. He’s dead. No, sorry.” She hadn’t quite meant _that_.

He sounded irritated as he said, “Molly, please don’t feel the need to make conversation. It’s really not your area.”

It wasn’t, but she pressed on. “When he was dying, he was always cheerful. He was lovely. Except when he thought no one could see? I saw him once. He looked sad.”

“Molly…” said Sherlock warningly, still staring into his microscope. She ignored him.

“You look sad. When you think he can’t see you.” Sherlock glanced at John, then looked right at her. There it was. But she didn’t want him realizing she was trying to make things worse. “Are you okay? And don’t just say you are, because I know what that means, looking sad when you think no one can see you.”

“You can see me,” said Sherlock. Not his finest observation.

“I don’t count.” That was the truest thing she’d said in a long time. Sherlock had the grace to look confused. But she’d been trying to convince him she was being nice. “What I’m trying to say is that if there’s anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all, you can have me. No, I just mean… I mean… If there’s anything you need… It’s fine.” This was not coming out well.

“Wh-what could I need from you?” Sherlock stuttered.

“Nothing. I don’t know. You could probably say thank you, actually.” She nodded fiercely. He could. It was high time.

“Thank you,” Sherlock managed, though he struggled to form the unfamiliar words.

“I’m just gonna go and get some crisps. Do you want anything?” What was she thinking? “It’s okay, I know you don’t.”

“Well, actually, maybe I’ll…” he started, but she interrupted him. She was not giving him an opportunity to be nice. He didn’t deserve it.

“I know you don’t.” She hurried away.

 

Just as Molly was leaving the morgue, Sherlock’s voice said, “You were wrong, you know.” She jumped and gasped; she’d been unaware of his presence. He continued, “You do count. You’ve always counted, and I’ve always trusted you. But you were right. I’m not okay.”

She hadn’t expected him to admit it. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

“Molly, I think I’m going to die.” His tone was uncharacteristically sad.

_Of course you’re not going to die. You have a plan._ I _have a plan. You just like being dramatic._ “What do you need?”

“If I wasn’t everything that you think I am – everything that _I_ think I am – would you still help me?”

Oh, come on, this was pathetic. “What do you need?”

“You.”

That was entirely too vague. “What do you need me to do?”

“I need a body. A specific one. I need you to help me find it and fake the records.”

“But… that’s breaking the law.”

“Please.”

He looked desperate. Success. She would do it.

 

Molly was out one day with her friend Meena, getting coffee, talking about Meena’s latest boyfriend, and giggling, when Meena caught sight of someone she knew and waved him over to their table. The two chatted for a moment while Molly stared at Meena’s friend, the wheels in her mind spinning. Eventually Meena recollected herself and said, “Oh, Tom, this is my friend Molly. Molly, this is Tom.”

“Hi, Tom,” said Molly with her prettiest smile. Tom was tall and scrawny and possessed cheekbones and curly dark hair.

She was going to catch him, and Tom was going to be very useful. Sherlock was still dead, but she was already looking forward to seeing his face when he met Tom.

 

The time to bring Sherlock back had arrived. He’d been gone long enough; Molly knew he was nearly finished tracking down Moriarty’s network. She needed something that would make Mycroft decide to fetch his baby brother.

She flipped through her box filled with index cards of ideas. She had used most of these already; someday soon she should sit down and come up with new ones.

Oh. Here was one. Sebastian Moran, a potential major troublemaker. She had not yet made use of that fact. She would see if he was up to anything – or if he could be persuaded to be up to anything.

 

“Sherlock?” Molly asked, following him down stairs after a day of solving crimes together.

“Hmm?”

“What was today about?”

“Saying thank you.”

“For what?”

“Everything you did for me.”

He’d changed. She really thought he had. Too bad it happened too late. “It’s okay. It was my pleasure.”

“No, I mean it.” He was very serious.

”I don’t mean pleasure. I mean, I didn’t mind. I wanted to...”

“Moriarty slipped up. He made a mistake. Because the one person he thought didn’t matter at all was the one person that mattered the most. You made it all possible.” He’d really gotten sweet, hadn’t he? “But you can’t do this again, can you?” He’d noticed the ring. Of course he’d noticed the ring.

“I had a lovely day.” That was true. “I’d love to. I just…” She glanced down at her left hand.

“Congratulations, by the way.”

“He’s not from work,” said Molly, feeling the need to give Sherlock some sort of explanation. “We met through friends. The old-fashioned way. He’s nice. We… he’s got a dog. We, we go to the pub on weekends, and he… I’ve met his mum and dad and his friends and all his family. I’ve no idea why I’m telling you this.”

Sherlock looked at her sincerely, and it hurt. “I hope you’ll be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it.” He leaned down and kissed her cheek. She closed her eyes, not wanting this – or not wanting to want it. “After all,” he added, “not all the men you fall for can turn out to be sociopaths.”

“No?” she asked breathlessly.

“No.”

He left the building, and she lingered for a moment, remarking with a wry smile, “Maybe it’s just my type.”

 

This would be a good day. Maybe not quite as good as the one when she’d introduced the world’s most dangerous criminal to Glee, but close.

“Hello, everyone,” Molly said, leading her boyfriend into Sherlock’s flat.

“Hey, Molly,” said John.

“This is Tom,” she said. “Tom, this is everyone.”

John gaped at Tom for a moment before he regained enough self-control to introduce himself.

Sherlock finally turned and noticed Tom. His reaction was even better than John’s. He openly stared, and Tom stared back, eyes wide and slightly frightened.

But Sherlock didn’t say a thing about it before he left with John. Molly was almost disappointed; she had half-hoped for a blistering deduction of Tom’s character – which was not quite as angelic as she had made it out to be. But it was almost funnier this way, so she resigned herself quickly.

As Mrs. Hudson passed out champagne, Lestrade asked Molly, “So is it serious, you two?”

“Oh, yeah,” she said brightly. “I’ve moved on!”

As though anyone would believe that.

 

Sherlock wanted ideas on how the man had killed himself. Molly knew, and she was silently enjoying that fact when Tom leaned over to her and whispered, “He stabbed himself.”

What an idiot. She fervently hoped no one had heard him, but Sherlock said, “Hello? Who was that? Tom. Got a theory?”

Tom slowly stood up and began spouting his idiocy. “Um… Attempted suicide. With a blade made of compacted blood and bone. Broke after piercing his abdomen. Like a meat… dagger.” He trailed off, realizing how pathetic this sounded.

“A meat dagger,” Sherlock repeated in disbelief.

“Yes,” said Tom.

“Sit. Down.” Molly spoke through gritted teeth and yanked Tom into his chair. How humiliating. She had dealt with this long enough. No more. Today was the end of this relationship.

 

“Well?” asked John. “Is he clean?”

Of course Sherlock was clean. This was for a case. Magnussen. But no one was supposed to know she knew that. “Clean,” she said. Then she slapped Sherlock. She slapped him again. A third time for good measure. It felt great. “How dare you throw away the beautiful gifts you were born with?” she demanded. “And how dare you betray the love of your friends? Say you’re sorry.”

“Sorry your engagement’s over,” said Sherlock wryly, rubbing his face. “Though I’m fairly grateful for the lack of a ring.”

“Stop it. Just stop it.”

John spoke up. “If you were anywhere near this kind of thing again, you could have called. You could have talked to me.”

“Please do relax,” said Sherlock, obviously irritated. “This is all for a case.”

“A case. What kind of case would need you doing this?” John demanded incredulously.

“I might as well ask why you’ve started cycling to work,” said Sherlock.

Molly tuned them out. She didn’t care why John cycled to work; she was busy worrying about Sherlock and Magnussen. She had never doubted Sherlock could handle Moriarty, but Magnussen was something different, and she wanted Sherlock alive for her own plans.

 

Molly stared at the headline on the news site and sighed, then put her head in her hands and rubbed her temples. Well, Sherlock had survived Magnussen, but that was all she could say for him.

Now the government had decided to banish him. At least, that’s what they said. He was off to a job in Eastern Europe, and then on to who knows where, supposedly. But she knew here was no way he would survive that job. Six months at the most. If this was mercy, who wanted it?

No. She wouldn’t have it. Sherlock would stay in England, and she would kill him herself.

It was time to play her trump card.

Sherlock wasn’t the only one who could come back from the dead.

 

**Present**

The phone rang and rang. Sherlock stared at it, but the screen was on the floor, so he couldn’t see the caller’s identity. Not that knowing would have done any good.

He couldn’t even hope that whoever it was would be worried about when he didn’t answer; everyone knew that he regularly ignored his phone while analyzing data.

Though he wouldn’t have ignored it tonight. Not with Sophia missing.

But no one else knew that. They would think he was being himself.

Sometimes being himself had disadvantages.

 

_Any luck?_ Lestrade texted Sherlock. So far his men had found no leads, and he hoped Sherlock would discover something to narrow their search. The evidence at the flat gave Sherlock a decent idea of the abductor’s appearance but hadn’t at first glance revealed any evidence as to where the woman had gone. Searching the whole of London was not efficient.

Lestrade returned to directing the search, holding his phone, expecting a long wait for a reply; Sherlock notoriously ignored his phone while occupied at the lab. But the phone buzzed quickly. _He’s really worried,_ thought Lestrade as he checked the message. Then he stilled.

_Nothing yet, Greg. – SH_

Greg.

Sherlock never remembered his name. Not even when he tried. What were the chances it would happen tonight?

Nonexistent.

Something was wrong.

Lestrade grabbed the nearest laptop and pulled up the site to track Sherlock’s Smartphone; the precaution had been John’s idea. While the site searched for Sherlock’s phone, Lestrade dialed it, tucking his phone between his ear and his shoulder.

It rang and rang and went to voicemail.

Why would Sherlock text him back a minute ago and not answer his phone now?

The computer beeped, and Lestrade examined the address. It wasn’t St. Bart’s, but it looked familiar.

He googled it. Then decided he had not wanted to know.

Roland Kerr Further Education College.

Where it had all started.

What had Sherlock gotten himself into?

 

Lestrade didn’t exactly decide to go after Sherlock himself; he just found himself in front of the college, prepared to dash in and search. While he hesitated, unsure where to start, Molly ran out of the building on his left, carrying a squalling baby.

It had to be Sophia.

“Molly!” Lestrade shouted.

Molly started. Then she rushed toward him. “I found Sophia,” she gasped. “And Sherlock and the others, too. They’re tied up, but they told me to get Sophia out first.”

Lestrade wondered how she had known Sherlock was missing, and who the others were, but there would be time to ask questions later. “You stay here. I’ll go help. Where are they?”

She pointed. “In the basement. I left the door to it open.” Almost before she finished speaking, Lestrade ran into the building. Molly stared after him. She hadn’t intended for him to die, but, well, it was too late to do anything about it now.

 

Someone was in the corridor. Sherlock heard pounding footsteps and slamming doors. The door to his prison crashed open to reveal a panicked Lestrade. The inspector didn’t miss a beat, just dashed in and began untying Sherlock. “Thank goodness Molly found you,” he gasped.

“Molly didn’t find us,” said Sherlock. “Molly did this.”

Lestrade paused and gave him a disbelieving look. “What?”

“Molly did this. For revenge. Because I didn’t notice her.”

“You know the saying,” said Moriarty in a singsong voice. “Hell hath no fury…”

Lestrade groaned. “Either all my friends are insane or I am.”

“You don’t have time to decide that,” Sherlock snapped. “There’s a bomb about to go off.”

Lestrade groaned again, but he bent back over the knots rather than trying to escape. “Knowing you has been an adventure, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Did Molly have Sophia?”

“Yes.”

Lestrade freed Sherlock and moved to Moriarty’s chair while Sherlock rushed out of the room. The bomb was in the hallway, and he paused to glance at it. Just under three minutes on the timer. No switch.

He found John and Mary in the next room, which was identical to the one where he had been secured. “Sophia’s safe,” he gasped, kneeling by John and yanking at the ropes that held him. “But we’re not. There’s a bomb about to explode. And this time there’s no off switch.” No matter how fast he did this, they weren’t going to make it out of here, but he had no intention of telling them that.

“What is it with you and bombs?” John grunted.

Sherlock gave him a wry half smile. “They’re exciting.” One of John’s hands was free. He moved to the other.

“You need a hobby.”

“I have one.”

“Solving crimes is not–“

 

_Boom._

Sophia screamed even more loudly at the deafening noise. Molly held her tightly and stared. She’d done it. She won. She had beaten Sherlock Holmes. Had he still been capable of noticing anything, he could never have failed to notice her again.

She had beaten Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
